The Lawman's Bride

Sophie had never heard him string so many words together all at once. “Is it common practice to leave the jail unattended when there’s a prisoner locked inside?” she asked.

Marshal Connor appeared uncomfortable at her question. He used his napkin. “No, miss. That’s a mistake I take the blame for.”

“You had no way of knowing what would happen,” Ellie assured him.

“Makes no difference,” he replied. “A lawman has to be prepared.”

Ellie changed the subject by asking Sophie if she knew Goldie Krenshaw.

“Yes, of course. Her room is down the hall from mine.”

“I used to be her roommate,” Ellie said. “We’re still good friends.”

Once they’d finished breakfast, Clay picked up his hat. “Thank you kindly for everything, Mizz Chaney. Doc.”

Sophie stood and picked up her plate.

Ellie stopped her. “You run along now.”

“Thank you for your generosity. It was a pleasure meeting you and your family.”

Ellie touched her arm. “I’m sorry about the circumstances, but I’m glad we met.”

“Be waitin’ out front,” the marshal said.

Sophie glanced at his broad back in the leather vest and followed slowly. Her skirt was an inch or so too short, revealing her boot tops and stockings, and she felt awkward.

“Your clothing is in here.” Ellie handed her a bundle. “I’m afraid it smells like smoke.”

“Not a worry,” Sophie assured her. “Our laundry is done for us, as you know. I’ll instruct them to throw it away if it smells too bad.”

Dr. Chaney was standing near the front door when they reached it.

She thanked him again. “I’ll bring your payment around tomorrow.”

“No need. The marshal paid.”

She raised her gaze to his.

He shrugged. “Told him you wouldn’t be happy.”

He opened the door and she preceded him out to where the marshal waited.

Sophie glanced from the horse and buggy to the stone-faced man. “I could have walked.”

“I’m sure you could’ve, but I brought a rig so you wouldn’t have to.”

Secretly glad she wouldn’t have to parade down the busy streets of Newton with her boot tops and stockings on display, she let him assist her to the springed seat.

The Chaneys waved from the porch of their home as the buggy drew away.

“Nice folks,” the marshal said.

He had told her he would make things right with Mrs. Winters and the manager, so Sophie was going to have to let him do that.

“Breathin’ easier today?”

She nodded.

Horses and vehicles lined the street they turned onto. The wood platforms and bricked area in front of the Arcade were crowded with passengers waiting to get back onto the two trains that stood on the tracks, smoke bellowing from the stacks on the black steam engines.

“Looks like we’ll have to leave the buggy here and walk,” Clay said. He stopped and helped her down.

The train crews had eaten and were the first allowed back into the cars. Passengers crowded in close behind them.

Clay took Sophie’s hand and blazed a path through the tight gathering. “Looks like you just missed a big rush.”

“Undoubtedly there’s plenty of cleanup before the next arrival,” she replied.

He said something else, but loud voices distracted her. In a language Sophie understood perfectly, two braves were arguing with a man in a black jacket and a bowler. She identified the man right off as a fakir, a man who picked pockets and sold worthless tickets and land deeds to unsuspecting travelers.

The plains Indians were drawing attention from the crowd.

“That man…the one there.” She pointed him out to Clay. “He doesn’t look like a passenger, does he?”

“Which one?”

“The one with the hat who’s arguing with those Sioux.”

Clay maneuvered them closer. The Indians were talking among themselves now. Clay shrugged. “There does seem to be an argument.”

Shit, shit, shit, Sophie thought. Why wasn’t he picking up on what was going on? Convinced he’d catch on in a minute, she bit her tongue. The Indians were digging into their pouches now, and Sophie couldn’t waste another minute. “He’s one of those men who sell fake vouchers to the passengers.”

Clay shouldered his way through the crowd to confront the man she spoke of. He spotted Clay, slapped his hand on his bowler, and turned to flee. Clay waded through the crowd, but the man had disappeared, impossible to find.

Before he returned Sophie quickly explained to the dark-skinned brave who wore a flannel shirt with fringed deerskin pants that they shouldn’t trade their money for papers. There wasn’t a word in their language for lie. “No food vouchers. You buy food with your coins.”

“Did you give him any money?” Clay asked, coming up to them.

The man replied, but Clay only frowned. Another Indian beside him added something as well.

“No money was exchanged,” Sophie told Clay. “You chased him off before he got their money.” She pointed to the pieces of paper in their hands. “No good,” she said with a hand gesture and took the papers. “The marshal will take these.”

The Indians spoke among themselves and Sophie drew Clay away.

“How did you know what was going on?” he asked.

“I’ve seen that man out here before.” She hadn’t of course, but she knew his kind.